Stacking Stones​A Creative Craft Blog

From the mind of Jason Kapcala comes an eclectic journal dedicated to the study of creative writing, rock music, tailgating, and other miscellany. The musings, meditations, contemplations, and ruminations expressed here are my own unless otherwise indicated. Please feel free to share your comments, thoughts, and opinions, but do so respectfully and intelligently.

IF not Truth, Then What?

If the story, before it’s ever written, starts with an irrefutable truth, the act of writing becomes a mere attempt to spread that truth by creating a product out of it—an approach that is antithetical to artistry . . . .

We have our Arts so we don’t die of Truth.

―Ray Bradbury

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To be successful as a writer of realist fiction, you must be capable of wearing a couple different hats: the reader hat and the writer hat. You must be able to switch back and forth between these hats, as needed. Reading and writing are both acts of creation, but they approach the same subject matter from opposite directions.

This approach is not transferable.

When we read fiction, we make meaning by putting ourselves in the shoes of characters, by projecting our beliefs onto what we read, or by allowing the plot to challenge our assumptions. In each case, we take a story that was written by someone else and we fill in the blanks. Often, we like to think of this as “discovering” the “meaning” that an author deftly embedded in the work, and we enjoy a sense of accomplishment when we feel like we’ve cracked the code.

The truth is that the author didn’t consciously put that meaning there. We did as readers. All the author did was create the right conditions for us to do so.

This is why, when I hear fiction writers make claims about how their work is an act of “truth-telling,” despite its obvious imaginativeness, I cringe. It’s an easy position that strikes me as willfully self-important, or least defensive (an explanation for why artistic writing should continue to exist in a world of science and technology, despite art's lack of material value—after all, who among us would argue against Truth? It’s nearly inhumane).

Unfortunately, the problem with the “Truth Paradigm” as a defense of realist fiction is that it is inaccurate, even damaging to the notion of artistry itself. To say that fiction “lies to tell the Truth” implies both that fiction has hard truths to tell and that it’s fiction’s job to tell a reader anything.

Fiction’s job as I see it is not to provide answers or to reinforce the accepted facts of our lives. When we say that fiction, despite being a fabricated invention born of our imagination and creativity, tells the Truth, we set up a false expectation. The implication is that, upon reading a story or novel, if we are insightful enough, skilled enough, or well trained enough, we should arrive at a correct interpretation that explains to us something about how life works (or should work). Fiction’s role in this relationship is reduced to that of travel guide—we the tourists wander our way through the narrative with our flip-flops and fanny packs, snapping photos and buying up souvenir mementos, ushered forward by the tourism director who makes sure we linger in the right places. Or maybe fiction’s insights are meant as answers that we can then presumably use to make decisions about our lives. That would make it an instruction manual. Or a magic 8-ball.

For instance, if you write a poem about the Black Lives Matter movement, then under the “Truth Paradigm” I should be able to read that poem and learn that in America Black people face unique challenges, unfairness, and danger that White people do not. A lightbulb would go off . . . and then what? We move closer to solving the problem of institutional racism?

Do any of us need to be told or reminded that life in America is harder if you are the target of racial discrimination? Is that not axiomatic? (And, assuming it isn’t, why would we need a story to explain it? Couldn’t we just, as the critics say, look at the facts?)​

No wonder fiction gets dismissed as lightweight.

Some would argue that the cold hard facts don’t always convince people, don’t break our hearts (which is true). But when we talk about fiction “convincing” people, we veer right back onto the one-way street of “Truth Paradigm,” as though we expect to stomp out discrimination one socially (self)conscious story at a time.

Interaction with fiction becomes taking a lesson.

In this paradigm, fiction purports to know what is universally true. If the story, before it’s ever written, starts with an irrefutable Truth, the act of writing becomes a mere attempt to spread that truth by creating a product out of it—an approach that is antithetical to artistry, the process in which the act of creation and the act of discovery are simultaneous and synchronic.

​We learn about our characters through the act of writing about them. We further our plot not by mapping it out but by watching our characters negotiate the tight corners into which we paint them. That all happens on the page. It is for this reason that changing the line to “Fiction lies to tell a truth” [with lowercase t] still doesn’t solve our problem.

So why does fiction lie then?

In an interview with Douglas Thayer, my former mentor, Darrell Spencer once said that fiction does not lie to tell a Truth; rather it lies to depict and wonder:​

​Instead of “telling” a reader anything, what fiction does by this definition is put its humility on display. It says, I don’t know. This is what happened. And I’ll be marveling at it for a long time, same as you.

But isn’t that like a truth, if you really think about it?

Yes. No. Maybe. The problem with Truth is that, ironically, it can mean whatever we want it to mean (as in this semantic argument). What is true for me is not necessarily true for you, yet Truth speaks in absolutes. It lacks nuance or subtlety. It’s a bully that way. And while Truth puffs its chest, the real magic of realist fiction—the fact that itliterally makes us forget we’re reading fiction—goes ignored.

What fiction does, I think, is provide the right imaginative conditions for empathy to occur. This goes back to those hats: the reading hat and the writing hat.

When we draft fiction, it is important to take off the reading hat (the hat of interpretation). Our job is not to comment on the world for the purpose of convincing others but to describe the world as we see it. (Note: the world as we see it—not what we want a reader to see, expect a reader to see, or think a reader should see.) This can be especially difficult for new writers. That’s because, while our schools mostly do an excellent job of teaching deep reading, critical thinking, and commentary, they do a comparatively poor job of teaching creative writing, imaginative thinking, and generativity (especially once you get past elementary school). Consequently, most students approach writing the same way they approach reading: as an analytical exercise.

The result is a lot of bad paint-by-numbers writing. (Many students then grow to hate reading, as well.)​To be successful, a writer of fiction must perform the act of depiction with enough skill, craftsmanship, curiosity, and discipline to create an environment where it’s possible for someone wearing a reading hat to engage empathetically. Fiction doesn’t force empathy to happen, doesn’t script it (that would be telling a reader what to think and feel). It simply provides the raw materials for the reader to work with and let's their imagination do the rest.

This approach is wildly subversive.

To find out just how subversive it is, check back for my next blog entry"The Subversive Art of Empathy: A Case Study” . . . .

Jason kapcala

Jason Kapcala is the author of North to Lakeville (forthcoming on Urban Farmhouse Press). When he's not writing, he enjoys reading, cooking, rock and roll, driving his Dodge Challenger, and teaching others about the craft of writing.